


heaven keep the lonely

by eurythmix



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Guilt, Character Development, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, both historical accuracy and historical inaccuracy because that's just how i roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25991455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurythmix/pseuds/eurythmix
Summary: Nicolò, from Jerusalem to Giza, and the things he picks up along the way: a book of poetry, a new language, and a reason to live with his guilt.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 74
Kudos: 527





	heaven keep the lonely

**Author's Note:**

> title from [sorry by seinabo sey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DIqlWSzL-5Y)

What paltry Arabic Nicolò has picked up in the past five years does little to prepare him for Alexandria. The port is a cacophony of sharp vowels and shouted directions spoken so quickly he struggles to parse one work from the next. When he does manage to understand a stray merchant, their response to his halting inquiries is cold and deferent; they see the sword strapped to his hip, the smudges of mud across his brow, and call him a filthy Frank. It stings, and Nicolò has half a mind to correct them, but he knows that word has long since reached Alexandria of the siege. He knows what he is to these people, the locals and refugees and even the sailors who speak his tongue; he chose to breach the walls and they can read guilt in his sloped shoulders, the downward turn of his gaze, the quiet way he excuses himself.

He finds himself back at the port he arrived at. The ship he disembarked, stuffed with spices and fine perfumes, is still in the process of unloading; Nicolò watches as the crew pass barrels down the gangway, rhythmic and sturdy, motions born of years of practice. Nicolò wonders if he could learn to move like that, in a simple, earnest way. All he has known for the past three years is a single-minded march, one foot in front of the other, hate burning low in his gut. By Antioch he felt ill with it, blood slipping beneath his boots; Jerusalem, and he knew he couldn’t stomach what was sure to come. But he did it - he abandoned his outfit and joined the melee, driven by something inhuman and wild, casting aside his bow in favour of a longsword he found in the hands of a fallen soldier.

When it was over, when the city was silent and soaked, he dropped the sword and wept.

He had been vulnerable then, crouched in the street and howling; he hadn’t seen the blade until it was lodged between his ribs. Nicolò remembers falling to the ground, hands scrabbling against slick stone, and thanking God for a small mercy such as this. Dying was easy; living with the guilt would be impossible.

And yet here he was, an impossible thing, walking the length of the shore and rubbing a hand over his still-beating heart. He should have known that he didn’t deserve a quick, blameless death. This was his punishment to bear for as long as the pain he had inflicted continued to spread. 

The setting sun is bleeding pink across the horizon when Nicolò feels a dagger pressed to the small of his back. “I would not do that if I were you,” he says slowly. The tip of the knife wavers. “It will not bring you satisfaction.”

“What do you know?” a soft voice hisses in his ear. Young; a woman, maybe. Whoever it is, they intend to do this quickly, perhaps get a few words of vengeance in before robbing him blind. Nicolò had spent his last coin on the passage here but he’s sure his sword, the last vestige of a war he once felt so much conviction for, would fetch more than enough. 

Nicolò sighs. “Do what you must,” he says, resigned. Maybe this time death will stick - but he doubts he’s done enough in penance to deserve it. 

There’s a soft intake of breath and the dagger withdraws. Nicolò closes his eyes, mouth set in a grim line, and waits for it to plunge into his spine.

Nothing comes.

The sound of footfalls reaches him slowly, as does another voice. They exchange words with Nicolò’s assailant, quick and low, and for a wild moment Nicolò thinks that perhaps this newcomer is here to save him.

Of course, he’s wrong. He turns on his heel just as a weapon - that familiar curved sword, the same that failed to kill him in Jerusalem - is buried to the hilt in his stomach. Jaw slack in surprise, Nicolò looks up from his shaking hands to the man who came to finish the job.

 _My God_ , Nicolò thinks as the light around them fades, _I’ve been killed by an angel. What a beautiful way to die_.

* * *

  
The angel introduces himself as Yusuf. He tells Nicolò his Arabic is terrible and waits until he’s scrambled to his feet to stab him again.

“Do you remember me?” Yusuf asks as Nicolò falls to his knees. “Did you dream of me like I dreamed of you?”

Nicolò gapes at him. Nods hesitantly, his limbs turning cold, and watches as the rage in Yusuf’s eyes dulls. He had dreamed of this man - this avenging angel with the face of a man he had killed in Antioch, a casualty to his crossbow he hadn’t felt remorse for until he slept that night. He dreamed of an angel pulling an arrow from his heart and praying as the wound sewed itself shut by divine will, skin unblemished and smooth. Nicolò dreamed that the angel picked up his sword and rode to Jerusalem like God had whispered in his ear, pointed to the horizon and told him to run. 

On the shores of Alexandria, cloaked in night, the angel takes Nicolò’s face in his hands. He’s cradling it, rough palms pressed to the slope of his jaw. Yusuf sighs and twists Nicolò’s neck, forestalling the inevitable, and Nicolò doesn’t have time to thank him again.

* * *

Yusuf is gone by the time Nicolò awakens. He’s sequestered in an alley further in town, gasping against a hessian bag that has been laid under his cheek. Nicolò sits up, hands glancing across his stomach, his chest, his throat - he’s alive, despite it all. It’s so unfair that the fragile shell of Nicolò’s control cracks and he screams wordlessly, banging his fists against stone until his knuckles split.

A man shouts something at him from further down the alley. The sun has barely risen and Alexandria stirs around him, disgruntled at his manic outburst but well enough acquainted with strangeness to give him little pause. Nicolò doesn’t know how long he sits there, back against the wall, fingers digging bruises into his knees as he begs God for a simple end, a life that makes sense.

All he receives in return is flashes of Yusuf; his warm brown skin glittering with sweat, the dark flash of his eyes, his tongue slipping between his lips as he treks south. Nicolò holds tight to what he knows, runs his mind over the images he has been gifted, and gets to his feet. He’s starving, lips dry and limbs shaky, but God has given him a purpose. Whether it will lead to an earnest death is not for him to decide; the Lord has placed Nicolò’s soul in Yusuf’s hands. It is his to do with as he wishes.

He can only hope that his angel wants a swift conclusion too.

Nicolò walks: he follows the great river from Alexandria to Naukratis, across stretches of fertile farmland and bone-dry desert. He sleeps beneath the stars and dreams of Yusuf miles ahead, his steps winding through the land with a confidence only a traveller could possess. Every so often Nicolò will come across a sympathetic character, someone who mistakes him for a servant and offers a share in their meal so that he may have the strength to continue. _I was taken_ , Nicolò tells them, _and I am trying to find my way home._ It’s not a lie, not really.

Yusuf leads him through Lower Egypt, crossing the Delta and looking over his shoulder like he expects Nicolò to be there, mere paces behind. But the sand burns his skin and the helping hands begin to close to fists the further inland they voyage; Nicolò wakes from dreams where Yusuf is welcomed like an old friend to a kick in the gut and spat words to move along. Life as a vagrant wears on Nicolò quickly but he refuses to stop, the old fires of hatred replaced with something terrifying and hopeful that spur his legs onwards. He’s not sure if it’s holy any more, but he knows that it’s right. Whatever waits for him at the end of his journey will be as natural as the tides, the moonrise, the spark that ignites a wildfire.

So, Nicolò walks.

* * *

Giza takes his breath away.

He had heard stories of great structures, towering pyramids that defied understanding; even from a distance Nicolò can admire the strength of each stone, the precision that must be chiselled into every inch. But the city is more than that - those stories never spoke of the thriving metropolis, the hundreds of dwellings occupied by thousands of people, all laughing and fighting and living by the river’s edge. Exhausted and barely standing, Nicolò prays that the vibrance of the city will spill onto his tired bones, allowing him a place to rest before journeying on. His dreams of Yusuf are growing stronger yet somehow less distinct, like holding something precious up to his eyes and only being able to focus on the finest details. 

Nicolò sees a woman’s headscarf as she bows in greeting. He smells a heavy, heady mixture of spices and meat. He hears laughter, feels an affectionate hand on his shoulder, listens as the room fills with companionable silence as they eat. 

Yusuf is courteous, kind; he talks to the woman like an old friend and yet, Nicolò’s throat tightens like he has seen them fall into bed together. He tells himself the heat is making him nauseous, casting him into delusions of which he hasn’t had the time or energy for since the march to Jerusalem began. 

He takes refuge on the outskirts of the city where less questions are asked. A group of men see him catching fish in a tributary and instead of slashing his throat they offer him shelter in exchange for his labour. He stays with them for a week, speaking little but providing plenty of fresh produce; he sits by the riverbank for long hours recalling his mother’s gentle instruction on how to weave a net, how to cast it into the water, how to wait until the moment was right to haul in. Nicolò thinks of her long brown braid swinging over her shoulder as she guided his hands, the delight in her pale eyes as he pulled a single squirming fish from his clumsy net. _My little seagull_ , she had murmured against the crown of his head, pulling him in for a hug. _My talented Nicolò._

He’s lost in thoughts of his family when the now-familiar bite of a blade itches between his shoulders. “Let go of the net.”

Nicolò’s heart sinks. He was so sure news of the siege hadn’t reached this far, that he had cut away at all the parts of himself that still stank of invasion. 

“I will leave you in peace,” he promises. “You can take the net, all the fish - please, let me go in peace.”

“Not a chance,” one of the men growls - Abasi, the only one of the group to introduce himself to Nicolò, always quick to thank him for each day’s haul. “You’re a murderer.”

“Yes,” Nicolò admits quietly. “I am.”

Abasi swears under his breath, no doubt frustrated at Nicolò’s lacklustre response. He wants a fight, a chance to exact a revenge that isn’t quite his own, but echoes along his bloodline just the same. He wants Nicolò to reach down and pick up his sword, to swing at him like the savage animal he is, to sprout the hateful words he had heard again and again, cradle to battlefield. He wants an enemy - Nicolò wants peace.

He kneels. Allows Abasi’s blade to slide up to the base of his skull.

“Do it,” he murmurs, head bowed. “Please.”

_Lord, let this be the last time._

It isn’t, because God has never listened to Nicolò. Instead there’s a sound like horse’s hooves, an exasperated noise low in someone’s throat, another voice that Nicolò couldn’t turn from if all the armies of heaven raised against him.

“Let him go,” Yusuf says wearily. “He’s mine.”

Abasi’s blade lowers, but Nicolò doesn’t hear it sheathed. “He’s one of them,” he replies. “He’s no servant; he will kill you in your sleep.”

Yusuf chuckles. “No, he is not like that.” There’s something warm in his tone, almost fond. “I think he would rather kill me in battle, no?”

It takes Nicolò a long moment to realise the question is directed at him. “I’m done fighting,” he says to the river, to the place where sunlight meets sand and illuminates the whole wide stretch of the desert, endless and unknown. “I will not raise my sword against you again, I swear.”

The air is tense as a drawn bowstring. Nicolò thinks that he will die in the next minute and it won’t even be by his angel’s hand; it isn’t right, not the death he craves so desperately. He will wake and Yusuf will be gone once more, and Nicolò will feel nothing but empty for having been left behind.

“Hand me that?”

Abasi grunts and acquises. He hears Yusuf step closer and the same blade is pressed to his neck, held in Yusuf’s strong, steady hand like it belongs there.

“Play dead,” he murmurs against the shell of Nicolò’s ear before drawing a long, thin line along his exposed throat.

It’s shock that sends Nicolò to the ground and common sense that keeps him still as he bleeds. He’s frozen, face-down in the silt, barely conscious of Yusuf wiping the blade on his tunic. “There,” Yusuf declares to the group. “Now he can’t harm anyone.”

None of the men reply. Nicolò stares blankly at his blood snaking across the mud, the flow slowing as the group disperses, and waits until it has dried completely before daring to breath.

“You didn’t kill me.”

Yusuf snorts. “I don’t think I can.” There’s a pause, long enough that Nicolò suspects Yusuf is waiting for him to spring to his feet and attack. He couldn’t even if he wanted to; he’s still laying by the bank, body immobile without something heavier than exhaustion. Gratitude, he realises. He’s glad to be alive.

“Your Arabic is getting better.”

Nicolò shuts his eyes and allows a small, indulgent smile to spread across his lips. 

* * *

Yusuf takes him to his lodgings in town. He rents the same small room whenever he passes through Giza; it’s hardly the expansive house from his home but he tells Nicolò he still enjoys visiting on his way to Cairo. “Najla does the most incredible things with mulukhiyah,” Yusuf enthuses as they slip through the streets unopposed. For his part, Nicolò barely attracts a passing glance; Yusuf had cleaned the blood from his neck and threw a shawl over his shoulders to hide the worst of the stains on his clothes.

“Najla,” Nicolò repeats slowly, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Your…wife?”

Yusuf stops in the middle of the thoroughfare, doubled over with laughter. “My wife! Oh, you are as amusing as you are mysterious, little Frank.” He claps Nicolò on the shoulder and carries on, occasionally muttering ‘wife’ under his breath and chuckling.

They reach the house by sundown. The second Nicolò’s foot crosses the threshold he’s overwhelmed with the scents from his dreams, the fragrant bloom of heat and spice and fat that makes his stomach whine. The woman is there - Najla, taller than he expected, with bright, intelligent eyes and a collection of knives he suspects she can wield as more than just cooking utensils - and greets Yusuf with a broad smile, apparently unsurprised that he has brought a dirty foreigner into the kitchen. They speak in a rapid-fire dialect Nicolò finds difficult to concentrate on; the occasional familiar word of Arabic is swallowed by an explosion of local vernacular, and after the first few minutes Nicolò admits defeat, content to sit on the bench he has been directed to and doze off.

He does not dream of Yusuf. There is no need for signs when he has already found what he was looking for.

* * *

  
Nicolò takes to living with Yusuf and Najla with an ease he didn’t know it was possible to have. They don’t trust him, not entirely; Najla tells him as such on the first night he stays, his longsword confiscated and held somewhere under her bed. He doesn’t dare attempt to look for it - not only would that break the semblance of peace that ties him to the household, but it would be wildly inappropriate for him to enter Najla’s sleeping quarters. That, and Nicolò is afraid she would run him through with his own sword if he even so much as looked at her incorrectly.

Yusuf is more relaxed, taking Nicolò to secluded corners of the city so that they can talk. It’s slow going, Nicolò’s Arabic still stubbornly clumsy, but Yusuf surprises him with a patience and grace he didn’t expect from someone his own age. “I come from a patient family,” Yusuf explains when Nicolò expresses this. “My mother is a poet, my father a merchant. Patience is a skill more precious than gold.”

Nicolò blinks at him, misty-eyed. “You sound like my mother.”

And Yusuf, smiling like the first crest of sun over storm clouds, laughs like they have known each other their whole lives, like Nicolò is a friend. “I hope that is a compliment.”

“Yes,” Nicolò hums, “it is.”

He doesn’t have the words to tell Yusuf that it is more than a compliment; he is speechless in the face of mercy, of Yusuf’s gentleness. This man should hate him - did hate him - and yet they sit by the river and share dates as Yusuf teaches him his tongue. He tells Yusuf he can teach him Ligurian in return, a small expression of his appreciation, but the offer receives a soft, though not unkind snort.

“I know some Ligurian,” he says casually, stirring his bare foot against the water. “Sabir, of course. A little Greek.” He winks at Nicolò. “Merchant, remember?”

The warmth that curls low in Nicolò’s stomach has nothing to do with the midday sun. _Oh_ , he thinks, _so this is why I am here. This is why I am alive._

He doesn’t stop smiling the rest of the day. Najla asks him what is wrong over dinner and he replies honestly, earnestly: _not a single thing_. 

* * *

The peace, if it was ever truly granted to Nicolò, is short-lived.

It is not uncommon to come across other Christians in Giza; they’re servants for the most part but there are free men too, traders and travellers who disappear into the crowds like salt in water. Though the city is under Islamic rule - “ _Islam_ ," Yusuf corrects him stressing the sibilants, "not _Saracen_ ," - there are odd churches dotted across the landscape. It’s not Christianity as he knows it, the liturgies and saints he was reared with, but the crucifix remains, a steady constant in a world Nicolò is only beginning to understand.

He doesn’t attend at first; call it cowardice or self-defence, but the thought of approaching the altar with his hands still sticky with blood fills him with cold, shivering dread. He hasn’t paid for his crimes, even as he helps Najla with the household chores and takes time to learn about the cultures he was so quick to slaughter. Asking for forgiveness, for grace to be granted when he committed such heinous acts in His name, feels more sacrilegious than anything the Church told him was happening in Jerusalem. _We were the infidels_ , he realises one night, Yusuf’s head dipping close to his as he laughs over one of Najla’s jokes. _We desecrated Your name, and for what?_

He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for that. 

Nicolò sits with his discomfort for weeks, pushes it down into the cracks so that it cannot spoil the rare, precious moments he has been gifted. It takes time for Najla to recognise that his regret is sincere and eventually she blesses him with stories; her childhood in Giza, parts of the Qur’an that are never far from her lips, tales from the travellers who have stayed in the room above her kitchen. She spins words into epics, trades her own voice for the timbre of others, and enthralls Nicolò for hours as he sits by the hearth peeling vegetables. He finds solace on the stone floor, a special kind of content that warms his chest when Najla directs him in making the evening meal: trust in handfuls of dough, respect in the slow simmer of stew. He thinks he loves her in a very quiet, peaceful way. He thinks if he told her as such she would throw an egg in his face.

It’s Yusuf who challenges the guilty beast in his chest. Yusuf has business in the city, loose ends he had dropped with the call to Jerusalem; sometimes, when the people he’s working with are discreet and the weather is good, he takes Nicolò to the marketplace and shows him how to bargain. He leads Nicolò through the stalls like they’re dancing, points out the freshest fruits and best hashish, translates what the sellers are shouting at him and adds his own light comments. Yusuf shows Nicolò something beautiful, a thriving metropolis humming with music and joy, and Nicolò swallows it so completely he feels like he’s choking. He wonders if this was what Jerusalem was like in the days before it knew of Nicolò’s shadow.

Those afternoons travelling the marketplace are the best and worst of Nicolò’s half-life. Yusuf buys loaves of bread for them to share and Nicolò takes each piece with a bowed head and greedy hands. He listens to Yusuf talk for hours about his home in the West, of the vast lands he’s traversed and the people he’s met, and thinks, _I deserve the worst of it all for trying to hurt him. Please, don’t let me hurt him again._

They don’t speak of the siege, not in such precise detail; the topic makes Yusuf shift with unease and look at Nicolò with trepidation, like the mere mention of Jerusalem will be enough for him to take up his sword. Nicolò leaves it in the dark, his own dread thick enough to smother any desire to let his apologies take air. It’s a delicate thing, the enormity of what happened, and Nicolò fears the day when the scales tip and send it shattering to the ground.

He doesn’t have long to worry. They’re haggling over a length of silk when a casual glance across the square seizes Nicolò’s insides - there, sitting by the well, is Abasi. He hasn’t noticed Nicolò but Yusuf has, turning away from the vendor to lay a questioning hand on his elbow. 

Nicolò shakes him off. “We need to go,” he says, mouth dry. 

“What?”

“Go,” Nicolò urges, pushing hard against Yusuf’s chest. The market is busy today, bodies surging against each other in the natural ebb and flow of a crowd, but Nicolò’s motion sends Yusuf into the path of an old man who can’t move away in time. It’s like watching a fire engulf a house, how quickly the mayhem spreads; the elderly man topples the woman and her child behind him, sending them all to the ground. The child lets out a sharp, piercing wail, a caterwaul through the din of the square, and Abasi’s eyes lift to meet Nicolò’s.

A terrible, high pitched whine whistles through Nicolò’s ears as Abasi stands. Distantly he’s aware of Yusuf apologising to the old man and the woman, offering figs from his bag as recompense, soothing the situation with a charming smile and guileless words. While Yusuf has the effortless ability to make friends with anyone, Nicolò doubts a few gifts will appease Abasi, who is stalking towards them with a single-minded focus.

He doesn’t bother explaining to Yusuf; there’s no time. He takes his hand and pulls him away from the square, out of the market, back through the maze of alleyways that feel so familiar to him now. Yusuf tugs back, confused, but allows Nicolò to drag him into the shadows of what he belatedly realises is a ramshackle church. The irony hits Nicolò so suddenly that he doubles over, gasping for breath.

Yusuf spreads a palm across his back, rubs from shoulder to shoulder in slow, steady motions. For a long minute they stand huddled beneath a flimsy crucifix, the only indication this small, squat building houses each and every shameful creature that Nicolò has carried from Genoa to Jerusalem, Alexandria to Giza. With startling clarity he can see what will happen the moment he tells Yusuf what has happened: there will be silence, so immense the sky will groan with the effort to keep it contained, then Yusuf will leave. He’ll tell Nicolò not to come home, not to speak to him or Najla again. Maybe he’ll kill him, strangle him on the archway of the church and leave his body for the vultures.

No, he’s far too kind. Nicolò suspects he will wait until nightfall to slit his throat like he should have done all those weeks ago. Not a clean death, but the right one, the kind that Nicolò deserves for dragging him into this living hell.

Yusuf’s hand stills. “Shit,” he whispers. Nicolò’s head jerks up, bewildered, just in time to see Abasi’s furious expression splitting the street in two.

This time it’s Yusuf who pulls him to his feet. He doesn’t say a word as they flit from lane to lane, across terraces and shopfronts; the only constant is his hand enveloped in Nicolò’s, slick with sweat, drawing him through the city like an unspooling thread. Nicolò can’t feel his legs as they burn, nor his feet as they slap over stone - nothing in the world exists beyond Yusuf’s grasp and the rabbit-fast heartbeat that thrums the length of his entire body as they run. It’s terrifying, the greatest crest of fear Nicolò has felt since he woke up alone in Jerusalem - and somehow, he is at peace, because Yusuf is here. 

They round the final corner to Najla’s house and Yusuf stops to catch his breath. The street is near empty; it’s midday and most of the residents are out doing business. Thankful for the lack of attention, Yusuf collapses against a wall, eyes squeezed shut. He’s muttering under his breath in his first language, a lyrical Maghreb dialect Nicolò can’t begin to decipher. Nicolò falls beside him, chest heaving, and waits for Yusuf to switch to their common tongue.

The first thing he says that Nicolò understands is, “We need to leave the city.”

The second is a sharp glance and an incoherent noise low in his throat. Nicolò drops his head in his hands and wishes he didn’t know how to read Yusuf’s disappointment.

Najla is surprised to see them home so early. A group of women from the neighbourhood sit in her kitchen sharing karkade and glare at Nicolò and Yusuf when they enter, breathing hard and covered in sweat. Yusuf exchanges words with Najla while Nicolò collects his things: his old tunic, thoroughly washed but still stained; a handful of other clothes; a bundle of dried fruits he had intended on giving to Najla. Yusuf’s pack sits by the door and Nicolò stuffs it with his belongings, careless about how each item falls. 

By the time he’s finished the women have dispersed and Najla stands by the table, her fingers like claws against the worn wood. Yusuf brushes a gentle kiss to the crown of her head and murmurs something so low, Nicolò doubts even Najla can hear it. She’s shaking her head, shoulders drawn, and Nicolò knows that this is it. This is the last time he will ever see her.

“Najla?”

She looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and furious. “Don’t,” she snaps. Nicolò opens his mouth to explain but she’s gone, turned away from him and ascending the steps in a flurry of motion. He glances over at Yusuf, gaping, but his companion is grabbing his own belongings, throwing them on top of Nicolò’s with the sharp flick of his wrist. 

“Yusuf -”

“No.”

“But -”

Yusuf pauses. He’s holding a book of poetry, a simple volume Nicolò had found on one of their afternoons. Nicolò couldn’t read Arabic, not yet, but the soft leather binding felt warm beneath his fingertips, the same way Yusuf’s smile lit up the cold, dark crevices of Nicolò’s soul.

“Later,” Yusuf says curtly. He props the book against the window and curls his empty hand into a fist. “Later, Nicolò.”

There’s a clatter behind them and Najla appears at the top of the stairs. She’s holding Nicolò’s longsword against her chest, thin arms trembling not at the weight of the weapon, but with the anger threatening to burst from her skin. She walks down in hesitant, measured steps and refuses to look Nicolò in the eye when she arrives at the bottom. “Here,” she says, quiet and contained. “Take it.”

Nicolò is careful not to let his fingers brush hers when he takes his sword. “Thank you,” he whispers. He swallows hard. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Najla replies. “It’s not good enough.”

They leave through the back, vaulting over the low walls that divide property from property. Nicolò glances back, hoping to catch one last sight of Najla’s face in the window, but all he’s met with is the back of the book of poetry and a bowl of dough waiting to be split. 

* * *

Yusuf doesn’t speak to him for days.

There are grunts of acknowledgement, a terse nod of agreement, but the roads from Giza are paved with silence. Nicolò keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword and jumps at unexpected noises, his skin crawling with more than just guilt; he feels as uncut as he had after Antioch, sleepless and unfettered, driven by impulses he wasn’t aware he had. He talks more than he ever has, filling Yusuf’s space with stories from the Old Testament until his tongue swells in his mouth like a lily forced to bloom in the cracks of a well.

It’s at an inn outside Cairo that Yusuf surprises him not by speaking Arabic, but fluid Genoese Ligurian.

“I’m saying this so you cannot misunderstand,” he mutters over their nightly meal. His voice crackles like dead leaves underfoot, strong despite the strain of disuse. “I am angry. With you, with myself, but mostly with the things we cannot change. I shouldn’t have led you here; I should have stopped you in Alexandria. I thought…” he trails off for a second, brow furrowed. “I thought you would leave the night I brought you back. I thought you would wait until Najla was asleep to steal her money and flee. But you stayed. Why?”

Nicolò hasn’t heard anyone speak in his own language since he abandoned his regiment in Jerusalem. It takes a long, awe-struck second to comprehend Yusuf’s words, to take his mind off the elegant roll of his tongue and the soft exhale that follows each sentence, to recognise that Yusuf is still waiting for a response. Nicolò clears his throat, cheeks flushed from the precision of Yusuf’s expectant stare.

“I told you,” he says, poking at the remnants of his stew. It’s watery and plain, nothing like what he made with Najla, and for a bright, painful moment he misses her more than anything. The thought that he would take advantage of her hospitality brings bile to his throat and he places his spoon on the table with an unsteady hand. “I said I would not raise my sword against you again. And I didn’t.”

“But you stayed,” Yusuf stresses, leaning across the table. They’re sequestered in the corner of the main room, sleepy conversation drifting through the open space, and still Yusuf leans close to him speaking low as if they’re packed in the marketplace. 

“I stayed.”

Yusuf rubs a hand over his eyes. “It’s no use,” he says tiredly in Arabic. The switch leaves Nicolò reeling just as much as his sudden Ligurian did; his body takes time to react when Yusuf stands, picks up their pack and exits the inn with quick, hurried strides. 

Thankfully he hasn’t gone far by the time Nicolò realises that he’s leaving. He tosses a few coins on the table, grabs his sword and chases after Yusuf’s retreating figure as he slips through the torch-lit town. It’s as unfamiliar as Giza had been in those first days, a bewildering array of sandstone and tapestry that begins to blur together the longer Nicolò searches. He spots Yusuf by the gates of the town, exchanging words with a guard, and Nicolò can’t help it - he shouts his name to the night like he’s charging into battle, letting every drop of raw emotion sink into his voice.

When Yusuf turns back, he drops his sword in the sand.

Something flickers across Yusuf’s face, great and terrible. He ignores the guard and approaches Nicolò in long strides, tunic flowing behind him like a cloak, every inch the avenging angel of Nicolò’s dreams. He’s incandescent, brighter than the full moon that halos the back of his head, all the brilliance of the North star illuminating his furious, glassy eyes. Nicolò offers his hands, palms raised to the heavens, and refuses to look away.

“Fucking Frank,” Yusuf murmurs. He bows his head and laughs in wet, heavy sobs. Nicolò’s arms ache to wrap around him, let his cheek fall against his shoulder and hold him through the bedlam - but he knows the rules here, even if they’ve never been written. He will wait. 

It takes a barked question from the guard to spur Yusuf to motion. He replies shortly, gestures for Nicolò to pick up their pack where he abandoned it, and picks up both his sword and Nicolò’s. It’s fascinating, the shadow they cast together: the curve of the scimitar cradling the straight edge of the longsword, two deadly things caught in a beautiful dance, each dangerous in their own right but proving all the more fatal side-by-side. 

Yusuf leads them out of the town, further from torchlight and into the deep blue of the desert. Somewhere in the still night a fox barks, sharp and guttural, but Nicolò doesn’t jump like he used to. The paranoia in his chest has simmered, safe with the knowledge that Yusuf still wants to talk to him, as curt as his words are. Except Yusuf is silent again, trekking through the dunes like Nicolò isn’t a foot behind him, waiting for some explanation of where they’re going.

“You know,” Nicolò says, shattering the quiet with the grace of a newborn gazelle, “I’m not a Frank.”

Yusuf stops dead in his tracks. “What does it matter?” he snaps, turning on his heel to thrust an accusatory finger against Nicolò’s chest. “You’re a Frank, you’re from Genoa, you’re a fucking Norman - it doesn’t matter. You’re all the same, so full of righteousness, and for what?”

“I know what I did was wrong,” Nicolò argues, limbs shaking with the same sense of virtue Yusuf accuses him of. The pack slips off his shoulder as he throws his arms wide, gesturing to the endless stretch of sand around them. “Why do you think I’m here, Yusuf?”

“I don’t know!” Yusuf shouts, hands fisted in his hair. “I don’t understand you! You attack me - you _kill_ me - and ask for forgiveness? What kind of man does that?”

“What kind of man cannot die?” Nicolò challenges. Yusuf exhales sharply, his eyes suspiciously bright. “What kind of man dreams of his killer, night after night, until they meet again? What kind of world have we been born into that allows such monstrous punishments?”

“You think this is a punishment?”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Yusuf says, his voice strangely even. He’s staring at Nicolò like it’s the first time he’s seen him - truly seen him, Nicolò, not the blood-soaked soldier who has slaughtered dozens in the name of misplaced honour. He looks at Nicolò like God has whispered in his ear, pointed to the man before him and told him to stay. “I think it’s a gift.”

Nicolò snorts. “It is a very poor gift, then.”

“I don’t know,” Yusuf says, so soft Nicolò barely hears him over the howl of the wind. “I found you, didn’t I?”

Nicolò’s breath catches. Yusuf is barely an arm’s length away, breathing hard; his hair has come undone from its tie, stray curls tapping against his cheekbones in the wind. Under moonlight his skin is washed in silver, the stars coming to rest on his forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin. When he sways forward, Nicolò can smell thick, heady smoke on his clothes, the last trace memories of Najla’s hearth, all the nights he spent staring at the back of Yusuf’s neck and asking God to let him keep this one good thing. 

“You are so beautiful,” he breathes, heart in his throat, and presses his lips, sure and firm, against Yusuf’s.

For a terrifying moment, Yusuf is still. Nicolò fears he has broken whatever shaky trust he fought so hard to regain, ruined the best part of his own life, but then - slowly, steadily, as sure as a sunrise - Yusuf’s hand reaches up to cradle Nicolò’s jaw. He leans in to the kiss like it’s the most natural movement in the world, like he’s been waiting for this his entire life, and Nicolò follows without hesitation. 

The weight he’s been carrying on his chest from the day he began his march does not disappear, nor does Yusuf shoulder it himself; Yusuf’s thumb brushes over Nicolò’s pulse point and the beast is amazed, goes limp against his ribcage, does not object to being ignored. There are bigger, brighter things in this world that guilt, he realises. With Yusuf’s tongue skating across his teeth Nicolò feels it all, the horror and the beauty, the depth of responsibility and the impossible lightness, acceptance in all its forms. He doesn’t know why he’s still alive but with each passing second he knows that Yusuf is more than enough of a reason to keep living. 

Yusuf pulls back, smiling as Nicolò chases his lips. “Wait,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against Nicolò’s. They stand there, swaying with the breeze, sharing short, giddy breaths as the air settles around them. “I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“I still think you’re too righteous for your own good.”

“I know.”

“I’m still going to call you a Frank.”

Nicolò’s mouth twitches. “I know.”

Yusuf laughs. “Good,” he says, and pulls back far enough to present Nicolò with his longsword. He snorts at the incredulous look Nicolò shoots him. “Take it. It’s not as if you can kill me. Besides,” he wiggles the hilt towards Nicolò, grinning broadly, “you’d hate to see me die by anyone else’s hand. Protect me and consider your penance paid.”

He says it so blithely that for a breathless second Nicolò can’t believe what he’s hearing. Nothing in heaven or on earth is so simple, but Yusuf is offering his weapon to him like it can do more than harm, like _he_ can do more than hurt. With trembling hands Nicolò grabs his sword, feeling its heft, and holds it like a shield at his side. It feels right; still dangerous, still capable of such horrible things that will stalk Nicolò for the rest of his life, but wielded with purpose like the patience of a crossbow.

Yusuf takes his hand. “Have you ever been to Baghdad?”

Nicolò tips his head back to the stars, breathing in for the first time in what feels like a millennium. “No,” he replies, smiling without reservation, “but I have the feeling I will love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://eurythmix.tumblr.com)


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